


Witchers' work

by fannishliss



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27566455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: Why does Geralt always wear such old clothing?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 352





	Witchers' work

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bomberqueen17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bomberqueen17/gifts).



Geralt’s face was a monstrous mask of white, black and red when he staggered back into the campsite. 

Jaskier looked up, did a doubletake, and sprang to his feet, catching the Witcher by the arm and leading him the rest of the way to the fire, where Jaskier’s bedroll was folded over a rock as a bit of a cushion. 

“Armor off?” Jaskier asked.He knew better by now than to start unbuckling before the Witcher gave the all-clear. 

Geralt nodded slightly, without even a grunt.His face had gone a terrible unnatural shade of white, and the black veins stood out all around the black pits of his eyes.The sneer of pain pulled his lips back, revealing the long, sharp teeth he usually tried to hide, and he was spattered all over with blood. 

Jaskier removed the heavy black armor piece by piece, revealing the damage to Geralt’s side that had slowed him down. 

“Talons,” Geralt said.“Kicked out as it fell.” 

“Shit,” Jaskier said.A long fight could slow even a Witcher, and Geralt often sustained the most damage as a monster struck out in its death throes with the last of its strength. 

The thick, silver studded leather that Geralt wore had been sliced by the wyvern and would need significant repair.The black linen shirt was soaked in blood, and slashed in three parallel claw marks, almost to the hem.Jaskier went to tear the cloth to make it easier to get at the cuts in Geralt’s side.

“No,” Geralt said.“Leave it.” 

Jaskier didn’t argue.He knew how particular Geralt was with his clothing and how dedicated he was to mending even the most damaged piece. 

Jaskier carefully pulled the shirt up Geralt’s body to reveal the cuts and set about tending them, splashing them with some of the alcohol Geralt carried for the purpose, then sewing the cuts together and sealing them with healing salve.Jaskier had seen Geralt throw back potions in battle that could sometimes heal such wounds, but Geralt had explained that such potions had a cost in toxicity that was not always worth the swift recovery time.

By the time he finished up, Geralt’s face was already looking better, the black veins beginning to fade back. Even without potions, the Witcher's mutations gave him prodigious healing abilities. A night’s rest would do him good. 

After drinking several cups of water, Geralt lay down on his bedroll and was asleep in moments.Jaskier sat up all night, keeping watch, tending the fire, chasing melodies on his lute and murmuring lyrics to himself.

The next day was slow, as they lingered in camp while Geralt’s wounds knit together.Jaskier tried not to make too much ruckus, fetched Geralt’s saddle bags when the Witcher looked musingly toward them, made him drink water throughout the day, and generally laid back. 

Toward the afternoon, as light slanted pleasantly down through the trees, Geralt dug through his pack to find a spool of thread.Jaskier was surprised to see that the thread was a bright crimson red. 

“Did you run out of black?” Jaskier asked. 

Geralt’s golden eyes flickered up at him and back down to his work.He was painstakingly piecing the seam together with an intricate stitch, more like embroidery than simple mending. 

“The red will show,” Jaskier said. 

“No, it won’t,” Geralt said. “Under my armor.”

“True,” Jaskier said, nodding.“But why such a fancy stitch then?” 

“Not fancy,” Geralt growled.Then he actually shifted with a grunt of pain, to angle the work away from Jaskier, as if to move it into better light. 

Jaskier said no more about it, going back to his lute.He practiced for an hour or so, and by the next time he brought the Witcher another cup of water, he was astonished to find Geralt going back over the tears, doing another stitch in blue!

“Geralt, what are you doing?” Jaskier demanded. 

“Nothing,” Geralt grumbled, turning again to hide the shirt from Jaskier as he worked. 

“You are doing something, you’re embroidering! Why are you embroidering, Geralt? That shirt has worn thin as it is.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt growled.It was the growl he used when Jaskier was “prying into Witcher things”. 

“What? What’s so secret about mending?Why are you mending that terrible old shirt, anyway?” 

“It’s not terrible,” Geralt said, with such an angry tone that Jaskier was taken aback. 

“Sorry, Geralt,” Jaskier said.He didn’t want to upset the Witcher, especially when he was injured. 

Another while went by as the Witcher mended his shirt held away from Jaskier’s prying eyes.He changed his threads two more times and Jaskier tried not to seem like he was looking, but now that he knew there was something secret going on, he was absolutely looking.Geralt not only had a number of different colors he was working with, but separate needles for each!This was witchery, Jaskier was sure of it. He was dying to see what the end result looked like, but Geralt folded it up and put it away with a glare at Jaskier as he did so. 

“You haven’t even washed it,” Jaskier said. 

“Grrr,” Geralt said, a full growl. So Jaskier dropped it. 

The next day, Geralt had healed well enough to go back to the wyvern for parts. The early fall weather was pleasant by day, and the nights were cool enough that the wyvern hadn’t completely gone rotten.Geralt skinned it (the scaly hide was quite valuable), took the claws and tail spikes, and started examining the organs when Jaskier’s constitution demanded he walk the other way for a while.When he returned, Geralt was just packing away a few things in some oil skins and his actions were vague enough that Jaskier could sit a ways off till he finished. 

Several weeks went by, with Jaskier on the lookout for the mended shirt to re-enter Geralt’s rotation, but it didn’t.He had two other shirts, both in a similar faded, thinning state, but he threw them on and donned his armor without giving Jaskier much of a look.Jaskier sighed and gave it up. 

Then, by accident, Jaskier fell down a cliff.It wasn’t such a tall cliff, or such a sheer drop, that he was instantly killed, but it was certainly quite a tumble, resulting in a very annoying sprain to his left wrist, and the prickly thorn bushes on the way down were not kind to his traveling clothes. 

Jaskier was no tailor; he was bad at close work; even his penmanship tutors had threatened him (and often followed through) with beatings to get him to apply himself to fine details.Writing his music down gave him the fits; it was one of the main reasons he went back to Oxenfurt with some regularity, where he persuaded the undergraduates to copy his music as he dictated it, while they squirmed with delight to bask in the presence of the continent’s premier bard and to learn his composition process “at the feet of the master” as he phrased it in his course descriptions. 

Staring with dismay at the rents in his trousers, he was struck with a flash of inspiration. 

“Geralt! You’re good at mending!” 

Geralt’s golden eyes went from placid and relaxed, even somewhat amused as they often were when Jaskier’s bad luck had caught up with him, to guarded and fierce.The eyes went from their most human looking to the slightly reptilian cast they took when the pupils contracted in annoyance. 

“No,” Geralt said flatly. 

“But.” 

“You can get your clothes mended in the next town.You haven’t shed a drop of your own blood.” Geralt’s mouth suddenly snapped shut when he realized he’d strung more than two words together. 

Jaskier ran Geralt’s words through his mind, a veritable _Yrden_ when it came to lyrics, languages, folklore, gossip, or other juicy tidbits. 

“My own blood,” he murmured. 

Geralt stood up, grumbling something about “rabbits,” and stalked away from their camp, returning just before sunset and applying himself studiously to the spitting of two formerly furry creatures, repelling any conversation starters of Jaskier’s with the stoniest of wide, strong shoulders. 

Jaskier certainly had interesting taste in a best friend.

The mystery of the mended shirt, as Jaskier thought of it, might have gone forever unsolved, except that by sheer chance, Geralt and Jaskier had not yet parted ways for the winter when they ran into Geralt’s brother Witcher, Lambert. 

The man had a gleam in his eye that made Jaskier know at once the Witcher was a kindred spirit.Lambert’s devilish tone filled Jaskier with glee, as he worked Geralt into a corner he couldn’t wiggle out of. 

As he gripped Jaskier by the forearm in a hearty grip, Lambert speared Geralt with a challenging stare. 

“Jaskier, well met at last! You’re wintering with us this year? Thank fuck!Geralt drags his sorry ass around the keep like a noonwraith, moaning for his bard.Jaskier this and Jaskier that.It’s driving me spare, it is.” 

Jaskier had been years waiting for this moment.He looked away from Geralt and tried to slow the beating of his heart. 

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” he began. 

“Not at all!We’d be glad of a bard at the keep! We’ve told Geralt for fucking years he should bring you.” 

“Hm,” Geralt grumbled, but he was fairly caught. 

Around the campfire that night, Lambert took off some of his heavier armor, and by the dancing firelight, Jaskier could make out some detailed embroidery around the collar, cuffs and hem of his shirt. 

“That’s beautiful embroidery,” Jaskier said, as lightly as he could. 

Geralt’s eyes flashed in annoyance. 

“Thank you,” Lambert said with a smile. “I like the line of your doublet.Ludvig of Novigrad?” 

“Yes it is!” Jaskier said, so surprised that Lambert knew his favorite tailor that he forgot to follow up about the embroidery.Lambert and Jaskier talked fine points of fashion until Geralt stomped away from the fire, came back and flopped down on his bedroll with his back to the fire and no further comment. 

Lambert was also a fine companion when they reached Ard Carraigh, giving Jaskier explicit advice about woolens, wine, and creature comforts he’d find lacking at Kaer Morhen. 

“Don’t get me wrong, we have barrels of spirits — but they’re fucking deadly to humans.I mean that literally. We have plenty of food, and furs, but everything is pretty fucking rustic even compared to camping with Geralt.” 

Jaskier knew what Lambert meant.Coming to a town after weeks on the Path with Geralt often made Jaskier’s heart leap with joy at the prospect of hot water, fresh bread, or a vegetable other than foraged greens — not to mention clean sheets, laundry services, and the possibility of an afternoon wandering through a market with a pocket of well-earned coin. 

Jaskier shopped Ard Carraigh with a vengeance, buying little gifts he hoped would impress Geralt’s brother Witchers. Sticking to what he knew, he bought mostly spices and oils with properties he well understood, and that were small and easy to pack.He’d noticed Lambert wearing eyeliner in town, so he bought the Witcher a fine bronze pocket mirror.Perhaps over the winter they could trade cosmetics when they got bored.Spotting a bottle of his favorite Zerrikanian liqueur, he added that to his stash. Thinking of Geralt, not without mischief, he couldn’t resist buying several skeins of colorful silk and several fine silver needles with golden eyes. 

“I’ll give to you a paper of pins,” he hummed to himself, then broke off, not wanting to follow up on that thought too closely. 

Jaskier played several lucrative sets at the inns of Ard Carraigh, and gave Geralt most of the coin.“Put this toward supplies,” he said, and was pleased to see approbation in Geralt’s nod.

The path to Kaer Morhen was beautiful, for the most part — a wide wagon road leading away from towns and farmsteads, dwindling into a cart path as the mountains got higher and steeper, and finally, fading away to a faint overgrown track. At length they came to a small stone barn, where they unhitched Roach from her cart and piled the supplies on travois, the two witchers dividing the heaviest goods and leaving Roach to carry only her own tack.The brown mare had clearly made the trek before, picking her way along the treacherous path as the Witchers dragged their burdens with inhuman strength and endurance. Jaskier was entrusted with nothing more than his lute and his bedroll, and though he sometimes had to scrabble with his hands, at least he did not fall off the side of the mountain. At the end of the second day along that path, they reached the mighty gates of Kaer Morhen under a crystalline autumn sky. 

Jaskier fit into life at the Keep with surprising ease. The old Witcher Vesemir ran the keep with a steady hand, ordering his Witchers to chores as though they were still youngsters.Jaskier made himself useful, working in the kitchen, the larder, and the smokehouse, doing his best at whatever Vesemir commanded, laying in game and the last of the old man’s gardens before the snows set in. 

Nights at Kaer Morhen were merrier than Jaskier had ever expected, especially after Eskel and Coën arrived.Geralt greeted Eskel with a tender embrace, laying his forehead against the other Witcher’s for a long minute, giving him a smile happier than Jaskier had ever seen. Coën, in his Griffin medallion, was quiet, but courteous, giving Jaskier frequent memories of his times in courtly houses. 

Lambert went out of his way to brew some beer for Jaskier.It wasn’t the best thing Jaskier had ever had, but it wasn’t the worst by far, and it wouldn’t kill him outright, so Jaskier was grateful.Lambert presented him with the second batch, much stronger than the first, with a gleeful light in his eyes, so Jaskier knew to savor it and go slow. 

Once the snows came, life at the Keep slowed down even more.The Witchers relaxed, brought out their armor, and began to mend it during the day.Geralt presented the wyvern skin, cured by now, and shared it with the others, each skillfully incorporating it into their armor as they saw fit. 

After their armor was mended, they turned to their clothing. Vesemir showed Jaskier how to darn socks, which seemed like exactly the type of thing that would make him explode with frustration, throw it down and dance out of the room. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that frustrating.Each sock only took a little while, and it didn’t have to be done all at once. It was something Jaskier could do for Geralt when times were hard, and that motivated him. 

One morning Eskel was nowhere to be found, so Jaskier went looking. A rhythmic thumping led him to a room he hadn’t noticed before, and there he found Eskel working at a loom, weaving a complicated pattern in red and white. 

Eskel didn’t break off his work, and he went very fast.It was clear he knew what he was doing, as an elaborate red and white pattern emerged on his cloth.

“I wish I could help,” Jaskier murmured. 

“hm” Eskel said, shaking his head, and Jaskier slunk away, still mesmerized by the flash of the shuttle as Eskel threw it between the threads of the warp. 

The next day, Vesemir brought a small spinning wheel to the room where the Witchers all gathered.He sat spinning flax in great concentration, holding the thread in three fingers as he spun. 

Jaskier passed by Geralt, and noticed the Witcher’s medallion was thrumming, not something you would notice unless you were standing very close.The hum was constant, rhythmically surging just slightly. 

Lights exploded inside Jaskier’s head. The bard barely contained himself from shouting as he understood what was going on. 

He sat back down and looked around.Lambert was embroidering a black shirt with bright colors, a design around the collar, cuffs and hem that Jaskier recognized as elder runes of protection, worked into flowers and vines. 

Geralt was sharpening weapons, as he often was — honing and humming to himself. 

Eskel was probably at the loom, weaving.Vesemir was spinning. Coën was fashioning a shirt from linen fabric. 

Jaskier went to Coën.“Can you teach me how to make the shirt?” 

Coën nodded. “It’s a simple design, but the shoulders are gathered.Sew this seam straight, and as you are sewing, say to yourself, _ciepło, ochrona, bezpieczeństwo_.” 

“Warmth, protection, safety,” Jaskier translated to himself.“Thank you,” he said out loud. 

Geralt looked up and smiled at Jaskier, then went back to his weapons. 

After a while, Vesemir stood and stretched.“Time for lunch,” he said.“Come, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier hurried with Vesemir to the kitchen, to put together lunch for the Witchers. 

“You put charms into the cloth,” he said suddenly. 

“Hm,” Vesemir affirmed. 

Jaskier realized how stupid he had been about Geralt’s clothing for years. 

“Geralt embroidered the seams after a wyvern clawed him,” Jaskier said. 

“I imagine he’ll give that shirt to Lambert or Eskel,” Vesemir said.“A shirt soaked in blood spilled in battle holds powerful magic.” 

“Hm,” Jaskier acknowledged. 

Settling into the workroom the next morning, Jaskier set to his task with renewed dedication. 

“Would singing the words make them stronger, perhaps?”he asked. 

“No harm in trying,” Vesemir said, so Jaskier sang as he sewed, and his needle seemed to fly like a falcon. 

Eskel worked most days at the loom, so Jaskier helped him wrap the shuttles and set up the warp, and sometimes went to sit with him there when the morning light was brightest. 

By solstice day, the Witchers were ready with gifts to exchange.Lambert was delighted with the little bronze mirror, and Vesemir especially loved the fiery Zerrikanian pepper that Jaskier had packed. To Coën, Jaskier gave a journal of fine rag, a spare made by his Oxenfurt stationers. Jaskier gave Geralt a fine silver comb that he’d bought at Belleteyne, just waiting for the right moment to give it. 

Jaskier’s jaw dropped when Geralt presented him with the black shirt, tailored down to his size, the three claw slashes exquisitely mended in colors Jaskier now understood: red for life and devotion, green for flourishing, white for purity, and blue for steadfastness. 

Geralt smiled as Jaskier was struck speechless, tears starting in his eyes. 

“Is it a Yule gift or a courting token,” Vesemir rumbled, lifting a cup of White Gull. 

Geralt blushed, and Jaskier flew into his arms, attaching himself like a startled kitten. 

Eskel chuckled, Coën looked away as the two men finally, finally kissed, and Lambert crowed like a loon. 


End file.
